Work Text:
Upon finding the sketchbook, it had taken Jon five minutes before he decided to open it.
Frankly, he didn’t see why he should have hesitated in the first place. They were in the middle of a murder investigation, after all. When everybody around him was a suspect, hesitating could very well end up with somebody getting killed.
Jon would never forgive himself if he let that happen.
If Martin had something to do with Gertrude’s murder, and if that something could be gleaned through the pages of his sketchbook, Jon wasn't about to let some vague sense of respect for privacy get in his way.
And who knows? Perhaps there was something here that proved Martin’s innocence. Proved that Martin could be trusted, a potential ally in this investigation (because, let’s be reasonable, despite the man's surprising show of intelligence and cunning during the Prentiss attack, he still remains very much at the bottom of Jon's suspect list).
Besides, if the contents of the book were so important to Martin, he wouldn’t have left it behind in the first place, right?
To his great disappointment, however, it ended up being a waste of time and energy. The first few pages were just mundane sketches of random, everyday items. Office stationery, cups of coffee, etcetera. There was one set of squiggly lines that Jon thought might have been a cat.
With a huff, Jon snapped the sketchbook shut.
Pointless tripe.
Back to step one.
That must have been why he was so disappointed, yes?
The unsent letter to Martin’s mother had been far more damning, anyway, so it was easy enough to let it absorb his attention. He turned the implications of its contents over and over in his mind (What are you lying about, Martin?), and he let the sketchbook slip from his mind entirely.
Which meant that, when he flipped the sketchbook open a second time, he hadn’t had as tidy an excuse as investigating for murder.
He couldn’t even honestly explain why he went back to it. It wasn’t like it was particularly impressive art. There was no elegance to the linework, no complexity of the subject matter. Hell, a decent handful of the sketches were of just the mug Martin had claimed for himself in the breakroom.
And yet, Jon couldn't bring himself to put it down. Perhaps it was merely his curiosity getting the better of him. After all, what was it about these items that were so compelling that Martin felt the need to pen them to paper?
It was all ... strangely intimate. As if he were looking at the world through Martin's eyes. The whole thing was starting to develop a voyeuristic edge to it, and Jon's stomach wriggled unpleasantly.
Still, he turned the page.
Eventually, the sketches started to become more ambitious. For a spell, it was sloppy, even sloppier than before, with some work being erased nearly to the point of wearing through the paper. Soon enough, though, even Jon, who didn't have an artistic bone in his body, could see a marked improvement.
Something had obviously given Martin the spark of motivation to improve at his craft. It wasn’t much longer before Jon was able to guess what it was.
At first, the sketches were small and indistinct; a hand holding a pen here, a clenched jawline there. A smile. It was unusual, Jon thought, as Martin hadn’t taken to drawing people before now.
He assumed it was an assortment of different people Martin encountered throughout his day, but as the number of these little outlines increased, just bits and pieces, never a full person, he started to wonder.
It had all become a bit too much, then. This was clearly something deeply private and intimate that Martin was bleeding into these pages, and even Jon couldn't justify going any further. He closed the book and tucked it into the far back of his desk, determined not to think of it any longer.
But it just wouldn't stop nagging at him.
Clearly, Martin’s attentions were consumed by this person, the sketches packed with so much unspoken yearning that even Jon, emotional dolt that he was, could sense it. But who was it? Did it have anything to do with the investigation? If it didn't, why was Martin hiding it from him?
One day, when Martin came to Jon, panicked but trying not to make it too obvious, he asked if Jon had found any of his things he had left behind, and Jon only became certain that were was something in that book that Martin didn’t want him to know about.
He said he didn’t know what Martin was talking about, please make yourself useful and get back to work. A hint of relief lit Martin’s eyes and, despite himself, Jon couldn’t stop the small twist of guilt at the lie.
Still unable to bring himself to drop it, he asked Tim if Martin had been seeing anyone. Tim had a strange look in his eyes as he answered, saying Martin, as far as he knew, wasn’t dating and had no plans to in the future. Sasha was even less forthcoming.
Somehow, this just made Jon even more frustrated. Obviously Martin was at risk of letting this infatuation drive him to the point of distraction and leave himself vulnerable. That was a weakness the team couldn’t afford, especially as Martin was already their weak link.
Jon frowned, and then took in a deep breath.
Perhaps … he was being a little unkind. Martin had performed exceptionally well during the attack on the Institute. If it weren’t for him, Jon would likely be riddled with worms by now, a thought which still jolts him awake with a pounding heart in the middle of the night.
This little side investigation wasn’t getting him anywhere. It was already obvious that the sketches didn’t have anything to do with the murder.
He needed to let this go.
If anything, Jon should be glad for his co-worker. It was an unpleasant time to be working in the archives, with everyone on edge and doubting one another. If Martin was able to find something outside of all this fear and uncertainty, well, that was good. Jon could find it in himself to be happy for him.
He only hoped whoever this mysterious person was knew how lucky they were.
The thought had struck him, unbidden, when he had been in the middle of sorting through his statements, and it was enough to completely stop him in his tracks.
Lucky. Lucky?
Well, yes, of course they would be lucky . Martin was rubbish as a researcher, but it was clear his kind heart and soft disposition would make for excellent qualities in a romantic partner. That was just a fact. Jon was being objective.
Why was he thinking about this so much? He was Martin’s boss ; and Martin, lest he forget, was still a suspect . It was atrociously inappropriate to be giving this much consideration to Martin's love life, and Jon was not the least bit interested in considering Martin's qualities as a romantic partner. At all.
At this point, it was the middle of the night. With a bitten-off huff, he sipped at his coffee, crouching over the notes on his desk. His mind seemed to have little interest in the investigation, though, and, honestly, he could hardly blame it. It was nearly four in the morning, by now.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his creaking chair as far as it could go, kneading his tired eyes with the ball of his hands.
He supposed it had been nice to have Martin in the archives, for a time.
After all, It was impossible to feel the usual, creeping chill of the statements with a grown man stumbling around in nothing but his pants and an old graphic t-shirt. The head archivist's office felt a little less cramped, the roll of the tape not quite as loud, knowing that Martin was only a few rooms away.
It had been greatly annoying, yes; Jon felt that he couldn't get any of his work done at his usual pace with Martin fretting over him. But now that Jon was alone again, with Martin gone, the darkness of the archives yawned greater than they ever had before.
Well. This was all probably for the best. Martin deserved whatever small sliver of comfort he could scrounge for himself. Jon already knew all too well that that was something he himself would never be able to provide.
Straightening, he pulled the tape closer. He was letting himself fall too far behind. Taking one last, bracing sip of his lukewarm coffee, he clicked the recorder on.
“Statement of Jennifer Ling, regarding a live musical performance she attended in Soho …”
And so, he read. He read until his throat was sore and the shadows from the lamplight seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer. Until his head hurt. Until, by the end of it, even the gentle ticking of the clock was too loud, his ears ringing so stringently he would have thought he had listened to a performance of Grifter’s Bone himself, if only the statements didn’t always leave him feeling this way.
“Supplemental,” he said, shoulders tense. “I’ve been watching Martin.”
Watching Martin. Spending far too much time thinking about Martin. Honestly, he should be embarrassed of himself. Reaching into his desk, he pulled out the sketchbook. He was determined to return it to Martin tomorrow.
“I’m glad he’s moved out of the archives, as it gives me a chance to work here without his constant presence.” A strange urge compelled him to flip through it. Take one last look of Martin’s heart laid bare before it was out of Jon’s reach forever. “Also, because he managed to leave some of his possessions behind, for the most part it’s just a book of …”
He had finally reached the last page.
It was a portrait of Jon.
At first, he was confused. What was this obviously painstakingly made drawing doing in Martin's sketchbook? Even the mysterious person Martin was so entirely enamoured with had not received the honour of a portrait.
And then, he felt a light flutter of realisation.
And then, something that ached. Something that made his chest hurt .
“… mildly mediocre art.”
The Jon in the portrait was smiling. Not a big smile; more so a reluctant curl. It still didn’t look right. Jon’s face wasn’t one made for smiling, after all. But here, it looked almost … natural. Softer.
The clock on the office wall continued to tick. A knot had twisted up in his throat, cutting off his air, and, with great effort, he swallowed it down.
“I’ll be keeping my eye on him,” he finished, at last. “End recording.”