Lux et Tenebrae

“Why did you leave me that message?” June caught up to Sherlock at the base of the hill, and fell into step beside her. “It wasn't because you needed me to witness yet another triumph over the officials. God knows I've seen enough of those.”

Sherlock smiled. “The solution was perfectly obvious, yet they couldn't see what was right under their noses. It's a wonder why my brother keeps them in his employ.”

June glanced back at the figures of Lestrade and Anderson marching down the hill, lanterns swaying, the ghost of their voices drifting through the bitter night air. “Well, he's a government official himself, isn't he? He has to follow colonial law. He can't exactly ask his little sister to take over as an inspector or magistrate. It would be an outrage. He has to think of what's best for his subjects.”

Sherlock sighed. She tucked her hands beneath the folds of her cloak, pulling the warm, thick woolen fabric closer around herself. “Mycroft is never around. How would he know what's best for us?”

June bit her lip. She shrugged, looking up at the moon as it sank low in the sky. “I'm sure he'll come to visit eventually, Sherlock. He's probably just busy, y'know... Advising the monarchy, or something equally mysterious and terrifying.”

This drew a low, short chuckle from Sherlock. “Mycroft is the monarchy. I'm surprised anyone's still pretending otherwise.”

June shook her head, laughing along with her. “Anyway, as I was asking before you distracted me, rather successfully, with your sibling issues--” she flashed Sherlock a teasing smile, “--why did you really summon me out into a frigid mid-winter's night?”

Ahead of them, a path of snow-covered gravel stretched away toward a cluster of little wooden houses hunkered beneath heavy lids of white powder. A single lantern burned in the window of the nearest. As they approached, it flickered and went out.

“There's been an incident.” Sherlock didn't look at June. June watched her, trying to read anything in that carefully blank expression. “Two girls fell ill with an unknown affliction yesterday morning. Eleven-year-old Abigail Williams and nine-year-old Elizabeth Parris, the niece and daughter of the Reverend Samuel Parris, respectively. Both of them were speaking in gibberish, having fits, and contorting themselves into unnatural positions. A doctor has been called, but it will take him a few days to arrive. Until then, no official diagnosis can be made.”

June searched her mind, frowning slightly. Sherlock's description had triggered something in her memory. And then it dawned on her: “There was another incident like this, four years ago. The Goodwin children. Their behavior was exactly as you've described.”

Sherlock looked at June then, light eyes reflecting the pale moon. Her expression was one of surprise and delight. “Precisely. I wasn't sure you'd remember. It was a couple years before we arrived.”

June nodded, trying to hide how pleased she was to have exceeded Sherlock's expectations. “Back in England, my mother was a midwife. She taught me quite a lot about healing, and the afflictions of both the mind and body. I tend to pay attention to such things.”

Sherlock smiled. “I'd noticed.”

“Of course. Of course you did.” June let out her breath in a soft huff of laughter, watching the thin fingers of white mist dissipate across the star-speckled sky. “Is there anything you don't notice?”

Sherlock shook her head. “I'm not in the habit of missing things, no.”

They had reached the first house by this time, and were coming up on the second. They were still nearly a half-mile from the center of the village, where the houses were bigger, richer, and closer together. Here on the outskirts of the colony lived the hardiest woodsmen and hunters: those expected to hold their own against the vicious attacks by man and beast that so often fell on Salem's citizens in these troubled times.

“So.” June nestled her chin into the collar of her coat. “What is it? This affliction? I know you have a theory.”

“The Reverend believes it's witchcraft.”

“Yeah, 'course he does. But what do you think?”

“I've narrowed it down to three possibilities: first, the girls are bored and faking their illness; second, there was a contaminant in something they ate; third, it's a rare convulsive disease they picked up either from an unknown visitor, or from an animal.”

“So you're sure it's not black magic, then.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I am. Superstition is for the desperate and deluded.” Her voice was thick with disdain. “Currently, I'm favoring the first explanation. It's possible that, given the girls' recent interest in the darker arts, they've taken it a step further and are now living out scenarios they read in their father's books. When I visited the Reverend's living quarters last year, I distinctly remember seeing a book on witchcraft and possession in his library.”

June let out a disbelieving huff. “You really think they'd risk being discovered reading books on evil magick? If the Reverend found out...” Her sentence tapered off into silence, because really, she didn't need to finish that thought aloud.

Sherlock shook her head. “It's likely they're too young to understand the consequences of their actions quite so well as you and I.”

“Yes, but--”

“June. It is a theory, nothing more. I have no evidence that would allow me to make such accusations, or otherwise step in to prevent harm to the children, or anyone they might accuse of bewitching them. Especially not when the children are relatives of the Reverend himself. As you've just said, even my brother must follow colonial rule, or chaos is inevitable. As it is, Salem Village is on the brink of collapse. The last thing we need do is give others reason to suspect fellow villagers of wrongdoings without proper proof.”

June bit her lip, wanting to argue—because there had to be some way they could prevent the trouble that false possessions could bring to the village, if that truly was what was going on—but finding no way to counter Sherlock's firm statements. In the end, she shook her head with a weary sigh, and allowed the conversation to die out.

Back in their small, drafty one-room house, June slipped out of her boots and into bed. She turned over and shut her eyes against the faint light of the lantern on the table, listening as Sherlock paced from the fireplace to the front door, and back again. The lack of moonlight coming through the window told June that it was very late—or very early, depending on your view—and the sun would be up in a few hours. She exhaled slowly, concentrating on the warmth of the air in her lungs as it escaped between her parted lips. Even inside their shelter, it was bitterly cold. The blankets covering June's body were hardly enough to keep her comfortable; she pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them close in an attempt to conserve some warmth.

Sherlock stopped pacing. June could feel her friend's eyes on her back. “You're cold.” It wasn't a question.

June made a sound that wasn't quite confirmation, but wasn't denial, either.

“I'll start a fire.” There was the distinct sound of wood scraping wood as Sherlock knelt down and began rummaging through the tinder pile.

“Don't bother.” June turned over. Her gaze fell on Sherlock, crouched beside the mantle, a dry stick of birch in her hands. Sherlock looked up, and their eyes met. In the dimming lantern light, Sherlock was hardly more than a cloaked silhouette.

Sherlock straightened up, dusting herself off. “You're freezing, June. Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not.” June sat up, stifling a yawn with one hand. “Not being ridiculous, that is.” She made a come-here motion with one finger, and turned over, pulling the covers up to her nose. “Besides, you've got to be cold yourself. You were out on that blasted hill for much longer than I was. Come to bed.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, and set down the birch stick. June listened to her wrestling with her boots for a long moment, and then the dark-haired woman was slipping into their single, too-small bed, still fully clothed (minus the cloak) and halfheartedly muttering about not being tired yet.

“Well, that's too ba--” June cut herself off with a sharp yelp as something wet and freezing touched her sockless feet and exposed calves. “Sherlock, what in God's name?” She scrambled upright, glaring down at her friend.

“My clothes are wet from kneeling in the snow.” Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow she'd buried her face in. “Ignore it. Your body's heat will warm it up soon enough.”

“Uh, no.” June's voice was edged with exasperation. At this rate, she would be getting a total of zero hours of sleep before the morning dawned. “Take off your disgusting, filthy wet clothes, Sherlock. Or so help me.”

“Or so help you what? You'll steal all the blankets in the night?” Sherlock shoved the covers off, and swung her legs out of bed. Grudgingly slow, she began removing the soaking articles of clothing clinging to her body, tossing them into an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. “Oh, wait. You already do.”

June slipped back beneath the covers, flinching slightly as her hand settled on a cold, damp patch of the mattress. “Oh, I do, do I? Well at least I don't leave dead animals lying around the house and on the dining table, or put dirt samples next to the spices in the pantry, or--”

“Yes, point made.” Sherlock slid back into bed beside June. “I'm a terrible house-mate, I'm aware.”

June let out an exasperated sigh, and tried not to sound too fond when she said, “I wouldn't want to live with anyone else, you know.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. June couldn't see her face—their backs were to each other—but she swore she heard Sherlock's breath catch very slightly at her admission.

“You know, Sherlock,” June slid one hand under her pillow, fluffing it, “I wonder how many people have figured out we're not sisters. We don't exactly look alike.”

“Perhaps it would be more believable if we told them I'm the eldest,” Sherlock said. “I am, after all, taller, cleverer, more elegant, and far more mature--”

With a surprised laugh, June kicked Sherlock in the back of the leg. “Shut up! I'm being serious. This is serious. What if it gets out that we're not related?”

Sherlock let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Then what? What does it matter what people think of us? We're not doing anything wrong.”

June sighed. “No. No, we're not.” She swallowed, turning onto her back to stare at the dark ceiling far above. “But people might assume that--”

“Oh, who cares what people assume?” Sherlock's voice was tight, her words low and fierce. “It's not illegal for two unmarried women to live under the same roof, is it?”

“No, of course not. It's just--”

“You're worried about your public image.”

“I'm worried that if accusations of witchcraft and panic spread, we'll be placed under intense scrutiny for how we live.”

“My brother lives in London. My parents live in London. And yet I was forced to leave London due to an inability to abide by the stunningly idiotic rules of that society; thankfully, you were good enough to accompany me. There is nothing wrong with how we live, June.”

June closed her eyes. She let her breath escape in a soft, drawn-out exhale. She willed her muscles to relax, and the fluttering of her heart to calm. “We have to be careful, Sherlock. No more interfering with official business until we're sure Abigail Williams and Elizabeth Parris aren't going to accuse anyone of anything unnatural.”

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

“What was that?”

“I said 'dull.'” With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock pulled the blankets up over her head, and flipped onto her front so that her face was buried in her pillow.

“I need you to promise me, Sherlock. No more showing off until this is over.” June put as much force into her words as she could muster at such a dreadfully late hour. This was too important to let go.

“Fine.” The single, sharp word was completely muffled. “I'll just lie here and be bored for the foreseeable future.”

Better bored than dead, June didn't say. Instead, she said, “Alright, then. Goodnight, Sherlock.” Reaching over, she snuffed out the lantern that Sherlock had set on the bedside table, plunging the room into total darkness.