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Martin tripped over a stray soda can and the pain in his side flared. Hissing through his teeth, he pressed his hand deeper over the wound, taking a moment to collect himself, before continuing to shamble down the rain slicked pavement.
He takes some initiative for once, and this is what happens. Typical. The others weren’t going to let him hear the end of this. Especially not Jon.
Martin hoped Jon never found out about this. He’d die of embarrassment, first. Martin was walking a tight rope after the disastrous Rentoul follow up, as it were. There’s no telling what Jon would do if he knew Martin had to go and get himself bloody stabbed , all the while following up a case that had already been closed.
He pulled his mind back to the task at hand; get to hospital. It was more difficult due to the fact that every lone piece of rubbish seemed determined to get under his feet and trip him up. It didn’t help that his legs moved like they were fast filling with lead, heavy and sluggish.
It’s amazing, sometimes, the things you take for granted. Martin walked every day. He was pretty good at it, he thought. But, now, it took everything he had just to put one foot in front of the other.
The pavement swam before his eyes, the neon lights bouncing off rain puddles in a hypnotic display. It made him queasy. He had to lean against a brick wall. Just a short break, to catch his breath. Not for long.
This was harder than he’d thought it would be. His GPS said the hospital had only been a twenty-minute walk, but he feels as if he’d been going and going for hours.
God, he was such a moron. What had he been thinking? Skulking around the site of paranormal nonsense with no backup and no one knowing where he was. He had just wanted to know more about the fate of Carlos Vittery, and, maybe, uncover something that was missed the first time. Something that would impress Jon.
He hadn’t known someone was there . He wouldn’t have gone in if he had known that.
The woman had dark hair, filthy and caked with a thick, flaky secretion and when she had turned, she had … holes , in her face. And the bugs …
So distracted by the silvery worms, he hadn’t had time to react when the woman lunged with a rusty razor, slicing clean through just under his ribs.
“It’s okay,” she had whispered. “You don’t want to be here for what comes next, anyway.”
Flooded with adrenaline, Martin had managed to sprint out of the basement, away from the woman and her burrowing worms without any further harm. It had to have been Jane Prentiss. Nothing else made sense. And nothing good could possibly come out of whatever was coming next .
He grimaced, pressing his hand into his side, slick with blood.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He helplessly slid down the wall. No. No, this was bad. He can’t lie down. If he did, he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up.
Shit. Shit.
First things first, he had to tell someone about Prentiss. Someone had to know that she was planning something.
Pulling out his phone, he struggled to bring up his most recent conversations, fingers smearing blood onto the screen. Sasha. Sasha would know what to do.
He raised the phone to his ear, the streetlights swimming in and out of focus.
“Hello?”
Jon.
Martin’s eyes slid shut. Of course. His last text had been to Jon about the Popham follow up. Jon had said he had already finished recording the case and scolded Martin for being so late with his report. Tim and Sasha had had everything under control, anyway. Find someone else to bother.
He hadn't written that last part. Not explicitly, anyway.
Through the phone, there was a familiar, irritated sigh and Martin blinked back to reality.
“I really hope this is important, Martin, I was rather in the middle of something.”
Martin swallowed, torn between, Oh , nothing, sorry to bother you, good night and, I’m dying and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you I love you so, so much .
The phone trembled in his hand and he gripped it as tightly as he could. If he dropped it, he wouldn’t have the strength to pick it back up again. Was he really going to bleed out here? In this dingy alley, in the middle of the night, in the rain? That would be … really bad …
“For God’s sake, Martin, I don’t have time for this.”
“S-sorry …” Have to tell him. Needs to know. “Jane …”
“Martin?” The bite in his voice fell away. “What’s happening? You sound—”
“Jane Prentiss …”
There was a pause, and then a sudden, violent clattering. “Where are you?”
“Um … I was just … Carlos Vittery …”
“Don’t move, I’m on my way. Stay on the phone. Martin? Martin? ”
Ah. Now he’s went and gotten Jon all worked up.
“Sorry … tried to be useful …” He chuckled and it hurt. “Guess I should … know better by now …”
“ Martin! ”
At least he got to listen to Jon saying his name, like he was really worried about him or something. There were worse ways to go.
The phone slipped from his hand and everything fell away.
Martin awoke, slowly, first to the sound of a mechanical beeping, and then, hurried footsteps and outraged shouts. The door swung open and his drowsy eyes slid over to the figures that stormed in. His vision was still blurry, and he couldn’t make out their faces, but he recognized one voice.
“— know the policies and if you think you have any right to stop me—”
An unfamiliar woman came in behind him, haggard and face lined with stress.
“Do you know this man, sir?” she said to Martin.
Martin blinked sleepily, eyes moving back to Jon. His hair was wilder and more unkempt than he’d ever seen it.
“Yeah," he said. "He’s my, uh … boss?”
Jon turned to the woman with a victorious smirk, but the woman was already backing out of the room.
“Just press the assist button if he’s bothering you,” she said, closing the door with a sharp click. Jon glared at the door, grumbling irritably under his breath. Martin opened his mouth, but a wave of nausea swept over him and his question was lost in a groan.
Jon snapped towards him, his irritation flipping to stark concern. Taking a deep breath, Martin tried again.
“Where am I?” he asked, faintly. “How did I get here?”
“Whittington Hospital. According to the nurse, a pedestrian saw you and called the paramedics.” Jon took a seat in the spare chair by his bedside, dropping his satchel by his side. His expression could have been cut from steel. “You are incredibly lucky.”
Martin squeezed his eyes closed. He certainly didn’t feel very lucky. Not with Jon looking so upset. He was still wearing the same soft, grey jumper from this morning, which means he had come here straight from the Institute, and for some reason that distressed Martin even more.
“How did you know where I was?”
“Obviously, the Carlos Vittery you mentioned was the same from case #0150409 and I figured you must have been near the Archway area. I’ve been trying all the hospitals nearby asking for a man of your description.”
What little energy Martin had drained out of him, and his head sank into the pillow.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh, and I suppose you’d rather have me twiddling my thumbs in the archives while you were dying? ”
“Sorry ...”
Jon pressed his lips together and he looked to the side. The severity of his expression gentled, and he turned back to Martin, his eyes softening.
“Are you alright?”
Martin’s heart fluttered.
“Well,” he managed. “Not dead. That’s a good start.”
Jon nodded, and then hoisted up his satchel.
“You were in surgery for a while, so I went out and bought some food, considering the stuff in hospital is so abysmal.”
“Oh. That’s … nice of you.” Also, wildly unexpected, but Martin wasn't saying anything. Hospital food was, in fact, not the greatest.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so …” Jon dumped a truly outrageous amount of granola bars, yoghurt, and crisps onto the end table. Some spilled over and he quickly reached down to scoop them up. “Yeah.”
A chuckle worked its way through Martin’s chest. It hurt, a little, but the pain was soothed by the sight of Jon juggling Hot Flamin’ Cheetos.
“Slight overkill, don’t you think?”
Jon snapped open a bag of cheese puffs. “Good to know my efforts are appreciated.”
“They are! They are.” With a muffled grunt, Martin reached over and plucked up a bottle of orange juice. “See? Look how appreciative I’m being.”
Jon hummed, flicking a cheesy puffball into his mouth. They both sat in silence, Martin sipping his drink and Jon munching through his crisps.
It must have been the longest time the two of them had ever been alone together. Though they were both quiet, it was a comfortable sort of silence. Just two people existing alongside each other. Reassured by their presence.
Then, Jon took a deep breath.
“I had no idea what to make of your call,” he said, folding the plastic bag into a small square. “I thought you were … You …”
Martin bit his lip, not wanting anything to slip out. Swallowing, Jon lowered his head.
“You had me worried.” Finally, Jon looked back up at him. His mouth was its usual grim, disappointed line, but his eyes shone with dark emotion. “Please don’t do that again.”
Jon had been really upset, hadn't he? Martin didn’t know how to feel about that. Embarrassed, certainly. Guilty, for putting Jon through such an unnecessary ordeal. But also … nice.
He traced the lip of his empty orange juice bottle.
Yeah. He felt nice.
“Well, I don't really fancy dying, so I guess I'll do my best.”
A tiny smile quirked the corner of Jon’s lips. Martin had only a moment to savour it, though, as it quickly slipped away as he pulled a pen and paper out of his satchel, and Martin mourned its loss. Jon opened his notebook.
“What happened at Carlos Vittery’s flat? You said you encountered Jane Prentiss, correct?”
Yes. Back to business.
Straightening up, Martin cleared his throat.
“Right. So, something about his case didn’t sit right with me, and I decided to go back and investigate some more. You know, observe my due diligence , and all that …”