Work Text:
I should have done this a long time ago, thinks Friday.
It is not a new thought.
Much of Friday’s thoughts are new after his perspective changed, though the ghost of this one had haunted him since day one of his being a corpse. It had come from an echo from his last days of living, an idea so needy and desperate that no matter how much he had tried to drown it, the concept kept clawing for air. Gasping and thrashing and choking his focus. A marked change, as before the diagnoses it had merely been a whisper. A feather soft suggestion. Advice.
Advice he wished he had followed.
I should let John go.
Friday had not wanted to, then. They had met as roommate, stuck together when no one else would have them. They were both so into their studies to be incompatible with jealous peers. John had not been the selfish one until Friday made him that way. Coaxed him and taught him to have things worth protecting. Friday never intended to become such a commodity, but once that intensity started it became far too easy to demand more.
He should have let John go then. Not draw the other into his work. They called it their work, but it had always been Friday’s project. He had never needed John, only...that wasn’t true at all after a time. He wanted John around. Needed John to bounce ideas off of, to debate theories and play devil’s advocate. He needed to sense John’s stolen glances in the deep hours of the night while he worked on his precious writings. John would watch for a long time before interrupting in order to see Friday finally eat.
He should have made John leave. Especially after the illness, its early symptoms taking hold. But John took up more of the work and provided information that the medical community did not care to share. Or John enforced their findings. Friday should not have tied the two of them tighter with promises that demanded the opposite of what John deserved. “Use my corpse,” rather than “try to move on.”
It was not all about the work. It was not all about the missing soul. Friday can be honest, knowing he kept John close because he needed John close. Were their roles reversed, Friday knows he would not let the other go, regardless of what Watson wished.
John Watson wished to be close, because Friday gave him no opportunities to choose otherwise. John and his beautiful intensity. His devotion. His loyalty. Friday truly should have treated John with the kind of love and respect that deserved freedom.
John thought Friday deserved him.
Friday doesn’t.
There was no way to know if the experiments would work. Friday had no doubts when he passed that John wouldn’t try.
And where did that get them? Where did it get John, but into the guilt of dead nations and the company of friends whose mortality became perverted. A body broken by trial after trial. Endless nights pining after Friday’s cadaver to give some kind of sign that it was all for naught.
Friday should have let him go.
John should have been a doctor. Married. Playing rugby and discussing corpse politics with friends who only demanded small favours like being best man, or keeping secrets of their affairs, or what to do about their syphilis.
Now, John is dead.
John is dead for Friday.
“Will he not wake up?”
The voice is innocent. Curious.
Friday lifts his head and offers a smile that might not be bittersweet. “Not to worry, Hadary. I made some adjustments to the process. It won’t be as traumatic for John, though it takes much more time.”
“We have time for once,” she notes, stepping primly into the room. “Still, after all we’ve been through, I’m looking forward to John waking and seeing you like this. I think the reunion might help me feel some joy.”
“That is...a nice thought,” Friday admits, the corners of his smile slipping. “Please forgive me, Hadary, if that is delayed. It is possible the adjustments will affect his memory. I don’t know how much he will forget, but certainly the last few months.”
The woman frowns. “That would include me. How we met.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
She is silent for a moment, her expression a mask as she thinks. Considers. She straightens at last, adopting a posture of determination. “I shall have an opportunity to introduce myself all over again, then.”
Friday is fond of her indomitability. “I hope so. Yet may I ask a far greater favour of you first?”
I should have done this a long time ago, thinks Friday.