John had appeared late one night, a fugitive over the Georgia/Florida border, a thin blonde dentist, heavily armed in the warm air, breathing heavily and coughing as a result, though his eyes and body gave an impression of unusual stillness. He had been leading his horse, its hooves wrapped in sacking, and tied it to a post of the porch ready, should his quiet knock be unanswered.

Thomas. It was Thomas. He would understand. He had understood when John had shot at the usurpers at the river. He had been in the war and knew that sometimes one had to kill.

He stood outside, poised to knock. On the other side of the door was light, warm lamps, a friendly calm, a small self-contained family, food and hospitality. Outside, it was so starkly real, adrenaline and excitement vibrating in the air around his ears, his hands feeling dry, and aware of every single texture, from the usually imperceptible grain of the leather harness to the horse's coat with every hair defined, to the touch of breath and air and then the grain of the wood under the smooth white paint when he knocked.

And then, there was Thomas, haloed in light, opening the door to him, a question on his face, a finger to his lips. It was late and everyone else was asleep. John was embraced though - solid arms around him, glad to know him present and safe. He put the horse in the stable, after a whispered exchange and went to sit on the chesterfield with his young uncle. There was coffee from the stove and leftover chicken stew, biscuits and jam. John felt ravenous, very aware of each mouthful, yet at the same time scarcely realising he was eating.
cut for length )

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 1019
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