Sanctuary fanfic: Portrait of an Independent Genius, Chapter 1

Feb 25, 2011 20:17

I've been planning to write a multi-chapter Druitt fic for a while now, but the level of research involved was somewhat daunting. I'm hoping to keep it as historically accurate as possible (the fact that the real Montague Druitt probably wasn't the Ripper notwithstanding). We'll see...

Title: Portrait of an Independent Genius
Author: bad_hay 
Rating: R/NC-17 (Eventually)
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt
Chapter warnings: Mild gore/descriptions of medical procedures
Spoilers: Since this story chronicles John's history, I'm gonna be safe and say any flashbacks up through the most current episode are fair game.
Disclaimer: Sanctuary and its lovely characters are not mine. Montague John Druitt, the real-life cricketer, is also not mine.
Author's note: The title is taken from a quote by George Bernard Shaw, who sarcastically commented on the Ripper murders, saying “Whilst we conventional Social Democrats were wasting our time on education, agitation and organisation, some independent genius has taken the matter in hand, and by simply murdering and disembowelling...women, converted the proprietary press to an inept sort of communism.”

Summary: Montague John Druitt's journey from innocent child to involuntary murderer.


I. The Red Flower

“Surgery is the red flower that blooms among the leaves and thorns that are the rest of medicine.”
~ Richard Seltzer

“Your father sews people up when they are ripped.”

John tried to imagine it. He’d seen Hettie sewing, of course-she was always scolding him for tearing his trousers. It was fun to watch her mend them, the needle slicing in and out of the cloth like a bat chasing insects across the sky at dusk. But Father couldn’t, wouldn’t have the time for such things. Wasn’t that what he always said? Not now, Johnny.

John rested his chin on his mother’s knee. “Like Hettie? She sews things.”

Her fingers traced a ticklish path through his hair and down his neck. “Yes, I suppose it’s a bit like Hettie, but…quicker than that. He must work quickly or…” She stopped, staring intently at him, and John knew he’d better not look frightened or he wouldn’t get to hear the rest.

He squeezed her hand. “Or what, Mummy?”

Her shoulders, which had become very straight, sagged again and she smiled at him. He liked it when she smiled. “…Or they won’t mend right.”

John pictured a man with his hands on his feet and his feet on his hands. He grinned. “Do the people get cross with him then?”

He hoped that would make her smile again, but instead she stopped stroking his hair and looked out the window at something he couldn’t see. At last she turned back and said quietly, “No, darling. Their families do.” John frowned and thought to ask her why, but before he could she stood and took his hand. “Never mind, you’ll understand soon enough.” And there were no more answers.

~

The theatre was uncomfortably warm and crowded. John stood on tiptoes and gripped the wooden rail, jostled by other spectators. Most were students clutching pen and paper, but now and then he glimpsed a patch of graying hair. Try though he might, John couldn’t imagine any of them sewing someone up. He wished Father would hurry.

A sharp poke in the ribs made him wince. William was frowning at him. “Quit gawking at people like a fool. You’re missing it!” John looked to the stage below, where another student in a brown and red speckled frock coat was laying sharp-looking things on a table.

“Missing what?” John snapped back. “They’re not even ready yet.”

“It’s still part of the process, John” he said, in that tone that made John feel like an especially stupid dog. William was always going on about Father’s work, using words like fascinating and essential and others he had never heard before. Instinctively, John looked around to Georgiana for support.

But Georgiana wasn’t there. Nor was his mother. No women were allowed here (except, of course, those who needed sewing up). Once John had asked his father why, and was treated to a long lecture about morality and strength and protecting feminine sensitivities. It hadn’t made much sense. After all, there was nothing sensitive about Georgiana. She was ill-tempered, a trait Father loudly disapproved of to little effect. Gee could shout down a mad dog if she felt like it, and sometimes John was frightened of her. But when it meant annoying William, she could always be counted on to stand behind him.

A sudden silence fell over the room, bringing John out of his thoughts. The student was leading a patient to the stage. It was a lady, a bit older and heavier than his mother, wearing nothing but a stained chemise and drawers. Her face was grey and she walked with a limp. John squirmed. It wasn’t proper to see ladies like this, wasn’t that what Mummy always said? But everyone else was still watching, and he knew if William saw him look away he’d never hear the end of it. Instead he focused on the table of instruments. There was no needle and thread that he could see.

Now the lady was lying back on the operating table. There was no pillow between her head and the hard wood, and John felt very sorry for her. Once he’d lost his pillow and had to spend the night without it. In the morning his neck was horribly stiff, and William kept trying to trick him into turning his head until Mummy made him stop.

A door to the right of the stage opened and Father emerged, dressed in his own spattered frock coat. There was some light applause from the students. John waved until William slapped his hand down, but Father’s eyes passed over them without acknowledgment. He raised a hand and the clapping faded.

“The patient,”-Father began, gesturing towards the lady, who looked less than pleased by the attention-“suffers from acute pains of the stomach, likely caused by inflammation of the appendix.” There was a sudden flurry of note-taking on all sides. John did not know what the appendix was, or what inflammation meant, but he certainly understood stomach pains. He wondered if inflammation of the appendix happened when you’d eaten too many sweets.

Father motioned to his assistant, who uncorked a large yellow bottle. After producing a handkerchief from his pocket, the man sprinkled a few drops of liquid on it and held the cloth under the lady’s nose. For a long time nothing seemed to happen. “He’s putting her to sleep,” William muttered, but he needn’t have bothered…at that moment the woman inhaled very sharply, her eyelids fluttered once, twice, then closed altogether. The assistant poured more liquid on the handkerchief and laid it over her face with a very deliberate flourish. John thought he heard tittering from the row behind.

Father gave the assistant a curt nod before facing the audience again. “Now that the patient has been anesthetized, an incision must be made in the abdomen. If the appendix is determined to be the cause of the discomfort, it will be cut from the surrounding tissue. Swiftness is essential during such procedures, in order to increase the patient’s odds of survival.”

John poked William and got another slap for his trouble. Ignoring the momentary pain he whispered, “What’s an incision?”

“It’s a cut, now be quiet and watch!”

Father was going to cut the lady? John gripped the railing tightly. Cuts were accidents, things that happened when you weren’t being careful. You didn’t cut someone else on purpose unless you were a very bad person. He felt ill. Father wasn’t a bad person. Wasn’t he supposed to be helping her? William must be wrong.

But the assistant was pulling the lady’s chemise up to her breasts, making John blush. He’d never seen this much of any woman, not even his mother. Her skin was pale, the color of soiled cheesecloth. The man rubbed liquid from a second bottle liberally over her stomach, then stepped back.

John saw his father grasp the scalpel and the sick feeling returned. William had been right. He moved to the far side of the operating table, holding it aloft in his right hand like a sword. The theatre collectively held its breath. Father pressed his blade upon the lady’s stomach…

It was rather like sketching. No screaming, no sudden spurts of blood, simply Father drawing a red line across a soft, slightly rounded canvas. He did it three times, effortlessly retracing until at last the wound opened. Inside everything was slick and many-layered, stripes upon crimson stripes. John forgot his queasiness entirely.

Without hesitating, Father slit diagonally through the thick red bands William called muscles, first in one direction, then the other. He moved swiftly, speaking only once-“The appendix is indeed quite inflamed”-leaving his audience to guess at the steps he was taking. Around John the pens were scribbling like mad. Despite the operation’s initial neatness, it was now a somewhat messy affair, with little rivulets of blood streaming down from the wound to soak the cloths on the table.

Having found the appendix, Father set about removing it. This was decidedly less gentle work than before, and John pressed a hand to his own stomach as the offending organ was wrenched completely from its owner, spattering red across his father’s coat for the first and only time. Despite the horror (or perhaps because of it), there was some scattered applause. William grinned. “Brilliant, don’t you think?” John had a different word for it, but he nodded anyway.

At last the cutting part was over, and John was pleasantly surprised to discover that the black string he’d taken for shoelace was actually thread, to be woven through the wound with a curved needle as big as his forearm. So Mummy had been right about the sewing. John wondered briefly if he should tell her there was more, but decided it might be one of those stories that could harm her feminine sensitivities.

As Father pulled the final stitch into place, the silence of the room was punctuated with whispered murmurs. Father set down his needle and looked up with an odd expression, as though he’d only just remembered he had an audience. He cleared his throat, giving them a thin smile. “The procedure is complete. Now the patient must avoid strenuous activity for several weeks if she wishes to make a successful recovery. I thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

The theatre erupted in clapping, and John was pushed against the rail as the students behind him rose to their feet. William was already moving towards the stairs. “Come on. I want to talk to him before everyone else does.” John grabbed William’s coat and let himself be led.

By the time they squeezed through the gathering crowd, Father had finished packing his instruments and was scrubbing up. William darted over to the nearby table and grabbed a clean towel. “Here, Father,” he said, offering it up with a nauseating smile. John turned away and pretended to gag.

“Thank you, Will.” Father’s eyes flickered over them. “How did you find the procedure?”

“It was fascinating!” John rolled his eyes. Last week he’d made a game of counting how often William used that word. He was up to 114.

While William prattled on, John drifted into his own thoughts, returning only to count his brother’s “fascinatings” (117-didn’t he know any other words?). A throng of students had formed around them, looking rather bored. He knew how they felt, always waiting to speak with Father, and then, when it was their turn at last, only in carefully rationed installments.

“What did you think of the operation, John?” He started, caught off guard. Father was giving him that look again; the one that said your brother doesn’t waste time idly daydreaming, why not follow his example?

“I think,” John said, choosing his words carefully, “It’s a bit like sewing.”

Father’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly before he smirked and clapped John on the shoulder. The smell of carbolic acid, strange and vaguely sweet, washed over him. “I suppose it is, Johnny. A bit more difficult though.” With that he turned away to accept the handshakes and smiles of his students.

“Let’s wait for Father by the door,” said William, pulling at his arm. John followed. He was glad he hadn’t blurted out the other thought in his head. I think I prefer real sewing.

sanctuary, portrait of an independent genius, fanfiction

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