Work Text:
Abraham van Helsing cycled down the tree-shaded street, the uneven bricks jarring his joints, even though he was barely pedaling fast enough to stay upright. He was in no hurry to get back to his home, and he was trying hard to appreciate the beauty around him— the elm leaves rustling in the late summer breeze, the red and pink dahlias blooming in the window boxes— with limited success.
Saturday was always hardest. Saturday was the day he brought flowers to his family.
The bike ride to the hospital was long but always fairly quiet. He would set one bouquet beside Anneke's bedside, and if she was awake, he would try to smile and say something cheerful as she stared at him with pale, confused eyes. Sometimes he used to touch her hand or kiss her forehead, but he didn't, anymore. It felt wrong, when she did not know who he was, and especially because she looked almost afraid of him. Sometimes he wondered why he still came, wondered if he was making everything worse. But she did seem to like the flowers, and so he continued to show up, week after week.
The other bouquet in his bike basket was for Ruben, who lay beneath the grass at the cemetery about two kilometers from the hospital. Van Helsing would often eat lunch with his son, sitting cross-legged beside his headstone and speaking aloud, telling him about his week, or pointing out the birds that flitted from tree to tree. He rarely wept, anymore, but saying goodbye was always melancholy, and his heart was heavy as he rode home.
Today the house would be empty; his housekeeper had the weekend off. When he got home, he would eat the soup she had left warming on the stove, and perhaps look over the syllabus for the class he would start teaching in a couple weeks. It was a course he'd taught before, and reviewing the syllabus was useless— he never stuck to his schedule, and usually just spoke about whatever came into his mind during actual classes. Students tended to either love him or hate him, and he had made peace with that. But if he would not work on his syllabus, what was there to do? He had spent every night this week at home with a book, and the thought of doing that one more time felt suddenly unbearable.
He was home now, parking his bike on his front porch. With a heavy sigh, he turned the key in the lock and stepped into the empty house.
For a moment he just stood there, feeling the dim, dusty house before him like a giant weight on his shoulders.
He shut the door behind him. A few letters were scattered on the floor from the mail slot, and with a sigh, he bent down to pick them up, grumbling aloud at the effort it took. He would need more light to read the addresses, anyway, and so he walked slowly into his study, opening the curtains and standing at the window, looking down at the letters just to have something to read.
The first was a letter from the University of Freiburg, no doubt asking him to come lecture there again. He tossed it on his desk to answer later. The second was from one of his colleagues in Eerbeek, who had been asking his advice on a medical case. That one, at least, should provide interesting reading, to stimulate the puzzle-solving part of his brain. He threw it atop the other letter.
Then he looked at the name on the third letter, and froze.
Dr. John Seward
Carfax Asylum
London
He put a hand to his mouth, feeling such a rush of emotion that tears sprang to his eyes. He had not heard from John for months upon months— their last correspondence had been Van Helsing congratulating John on his appointment to asylum superintendent, and John had written only a brief letter back thanking him. Van Helsing had sent one more letter, asking how he was faring, but John never responded. The unanswered letter had burned in Van Helsing's thoughts, buzzing about his head like a fly who could not be shooed away. Had the letter even reached John in the first place? Had he grown too busy, and forgotten about it? Had he forgotten about him?
He tore the letter open and saw the spidery handwriting that had graced so many papers and case studies, and his heart beat painfully as he forced himself to slow down and savor the words.
To my old and true friend, Dr. van Helsing—
My dear professor,
Please forgive my neglecting to send you correspondence for so long. Managing an asylum has been a greater task than I ever could have imagined, and far too many of my personal affairs have been set aside in the interests of trying to handle it all. I do hope that you are in good health and faring well.
He had to stop for a moment and pull himself together. He blinked back the tears and kept reading.
I am writing to you because I need your help. A dear friend of mine— a Lucy Westenra, the fiancée of my oldest friend the Honorable Arthur Holmwood— has fallen ill, and I cannot fathom what might be causing her symptoms.
Van Helsing's forehead furrowed in concern, and he read with interest John's detailed descriptions of the young woman's symptoms, which were vague enough that he could draw no conclusion. This should have been a frustration to him, but he felt his heart fluttering. If he could not figure this out via letter, that meant that he would have to show up in person…
I know that this is a considerable favour, but I ask you, in honour of our friendship, if you will consider coming to London to meet the young lady and give your opinion. Holmwood has, of course, offered to pay a generous fee for your trouble, but I appeal to you on the basis of our friendship, which has not, I hope, been too strained by these years apart.
Please let me know your decision as soon as possible.
Yours always,
John Seward
Van Helsing drew an unsteady breath, and pressed the letter to his chest. The sunshine seemed suddenly brighter, all the colors more intense. His heart was drumming loudly in the silent room, and as he turned to grab a piece of paper and pen, he knocked over a stack of papers and had to grab them and set them upright again. He nearly knocked over his chair, too, but at last was seated at his desk, a pen in his trembling hand.
He couldn't write— his hand was shaking too much. He set down the pen, pressed both palms to the table, and tried to breathe.
Much of his memory was vague and indistinct. In fact, the past several months all seemed to bleed together in a blank nothingness. But his memories of John were bright and sharp, as if the ink of creating them was still drying. He could see the way John's hair swept back from his forehead, his small pursed lips, the way he took his glasses off and tapped them against his teeth when he was trying to think. The thought of seeing him again in person— taking his slender hand in his to shake it, meeting the gaze of those unblinking dark eyes, teasing and joking with him in the way he had done when John was his student— this was enough to make his heart burst.
He had to take several long, steadying breaths before he attempted to pick up his pen again.
He wrote the date carefully, and deliberated for nearly a full minute before deciding on a first line. He at last chose, "My good Friend,—" and carefully penned his response from there.
When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear…
He finished the letter as quickly as he could, pausing only to deliberate on a closing line before choosing, "Till then good-bye, my friend John". Then he leaped up, grabbing an envelope and sealing the letter as he was on his way to his room to pack. He wouldn't need much, considering that he couldn't stay long, but perhaps he would be required to come back. He must leave a note for his housekeeper… he must check the train schedule…
He sealed, addressed, and stamped the envelope, and then, without thinking about it, he pressed a kiss to it. He immediately blushed, even though there was no one to see him, and for a moment considered rewriting the entire letter, as if John could possibly know the inappropriate feelings that he had let slip in this unconscious gesture.
But then he shook his head, and slipped the letter into his pocket. There was no time now— he must catch the next ship to London, and hope that he could be of use there.
Friend John was waiting.