Work Text:
The Prof doesn't come to work one day.
No note, no phone call, no text, nothing.
Lucy is level headed, she's always been ever since she was a wee little bairn. Emotions get the best of her sometimes, her temptation to jump to conclusions comes easy when he doesn't show up. However, she knows better and isn't going to run amok in search for him, for her optimism kept her in check, kept her feeling that he was probably okay. He probably needed more time to recuperate.
It was, after all, a week after Forbodium. Anyone, and she means anyone, would be emotionally distraught after such a tolling experience to the emotions and psyche no matter how much cases might interest you or how much you're called for duty. Half of you finds out that you truly are a lie, the other half livid that he's even bested by something so cheap that it's almost an insult to learn what you were bested by. It's even worse when you realize your fellow co-worker, someone you had worked with as buddies for probably as long as you've been in your position is the one who had done it to you.
So no, Lucy isn't freaking out just because the Prof doesn't come to work for one day. She instead busies herself with preparing the Reconstruction Machine for when the Prof is indeed ready to come back to work. A case that would intrigue him, she was sure. Murder by drowning in some seedy hotel many miles away from the Yard. Three suspects, two of which Lucy is sure that probably didn't do it, but nothing is ever concrete. To start without her mentor, however, felt wrong. It would be a betrayal that she knew wouldn't be, but it would feel off when the room lacked his voice carrying through it.
It wouldn't be right, she concludes.
He doesn't come the following day and Lucy starts to get concerned.
The Mystery Room is exactly the same as she had left it, which in turn meant exactly how he had left it since the last time she had seen him. She tries waiting a bit, but it doesn't help. Her concern marginally gets higher the longer she is waiting for his arrival, which slips past fashionably late and downright late altogether. She tries his mobile first, calling him a handful of times, which unfortunately all lead to voicemail. She tries a text, something she's only ever done when she tells him that she was going to be late for work for some reason.
prof, I'm worried. are you alright?
where are you?
She waits approximately a minute before she texts some more. It's soothing, at least, to feel like she's doing something.
you don't have ta work through this alone.
I know you're going through a lot but
I'm here. the whole Yard is, I bet.
by 'eck Prof, you're scaring me. like a lot.
I know I'm mitherin' you,
but I promise
I'll leave
you alone just tell me
if you're okay, you berk.
She realizes that she just called her mentor a downright idiot, so she quickly types up an apology, worrying her lip to the point of breaking skin.
okay, I'm sorry that I called you
that but can you please answer
me? call me? anything?
prof?
She asks around when the texting and calling doesn't work, ruling that maybe that he'd turn off his mobile for some peace and quiet. She doesn't blame him.
Deputy Commissioner Chan tells her that she's probably worrying her little head over nothing, the Prof was a dignified kinda guy that wouldn't just go missing. Sniffer tells her that he's probably somewhere close and that the fella would show up soon. The Commissioner informs her that she shouldn't be alarmed, as he used to go through bouts of not showing up and probably would be back tomorrow without fail. Florence remarks that it's probably just the Prof being the Prof, deep in though at his flat. Dustin suggests that he's been kidnapped, but it's a thought Lucy easily dismisses. Nobody that they had put into prison had been the type to have the resources for revenge from a prison cell and any other Makepeace with desires to end there was already dead.
To her surprise, Hilda is the one who actually tells her something of meaning. Something actually helpful and relevant.
"Ee, Hilda, have you see the Prof? He's been missing since yesterday and I'm a tad worried." She asks the Detective Inspector, who was in the middle of something.
"He's missing?" The older woman turns to the young Detective Constable, a clipboard with what looked like a form in her hand, a pen in the other. Lucy nods to her, wringing her hands to hell. Hilda puts her comforting hand on Lucy's hands, stopping the movement. "I'm guessing he's not kidnapped or else his captors would have told you by now with some ransom note."
"Aye. I was wondering if you'd have any inkling where he'd be."
"Try his flat. If he's not there, he's somewhere thinking of his last case. He used to go into sulks when he couldn't solve a certain one at first glance." Hilda says simply, "If you need to get to his flat, there's a spare key inside the Mystery Room, under the desk. I'm sure his address is on his mail, the ones he brings in sometimes." Lucy almost asks her how she knows him so well, but clamps her mouth shut at remembering that at one point, Hilda and the Prof were more than just associates. Lovers, at one point, she's sure.
Turning on her heel with a rushed thanks slipping from her overly moist lips, she doesn't wait for Hilda to say anything back and makes her way to the Mystery Room. It takes a bit, but she finds the key taped under the desk, just as Hilda said. The mail she also spoke of was easy to spot, revealing his flat's location, which was luckily, not that far on foot.
Now, perhaps it was the time that her level headedness wasn't going to help her in tampering her emotions this time around.
She practically springs out of the Mystery Room and New Scotland Yard, almost getting run over twice, but she's glad that London drivers were at, by any degree, competent enough to stop. She reaches his flat, which was in a nice area of London and knocks on the door patiently, twiddling her thumbs waiting. She double checks her phone to confirm that she's gotten the right address and tries again. Nothing. Taking the key she had snagged from his desk, she unlocks his flat without much effort and pushes open the door open.
"Prof? Hello?" She calls out, taking a tentative step in territory that she's never been in, no less seen before in her life. For the messiness of the Mystery Room, the Prof's own flat was actually quite mediocre--a telly, sofa, and loveseat are the main components of the living room along with a coffee table stacked with haphazardly placed files and some leftover takeout boxes. It's enough that she'd be able to tell if it was indeed his though, based on the boxes trapped in the corner that were practically leaking out newspapers, mirroring the ones in his own lab coat.
She calls out his name again the more she steps into the unknown territory, taking in more of the environment. She tries the kitchen first, then goes into the other rooms carefully. His bathroom, study, and bedroom show no signs of the Prof--or anyone, for that matter. If anything, it seemed that nobody hadn't been here in two days, save for herself. His bed was still made, a surprising thing she didn't think he'd do. Nevertheless, she concludes that he's not here. She pulls out her phone, about to try to text him once more in some last ditch effort when she gets a notification. Going into the message, she finds the Prof actually had responded to her with three words.
I'm scared, Lucy.
The words terrify her more than finding his flat is absolutely clean.
She types out a response quickly.
where are you, prof? tell me
where you are and I'll be right
there by your side in a jiff.
It takes him a few minutes, but his responses isn't helpful. It's downright terrifyingly cryptic.
I think I'm being
murdered. hurts.
you were the
best part of my four years.
you made me feel real.
Her eyes widen. Murdered? Then she realizes the 'four years' part of the message. Fendi? It must be. His existence only became four years ago, plus the 'you made me feel real' was the final confirmation. In a different circumstance, she would have probably claimed that it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her in any context. She bites her lip, attempting to ask him clearly again--perhaps he could speak in a riddle, anything that would clue her into where he was.
prof, what do you mean?
who's murdering you?
I can't help you if you don't
give me any clue of
where you are.
what do you see?
how can I find you?
His response doesn't take any longer than a minute to come to her screen.
where it all started. the stone
is cold. it's so
loud. help
me, Luc
Where it all started?
She leans back into the couch that conveniently catches her fall and she racks her brain very carefully and fast. She's known the Prof long enough, surely she could figure it out. Where it all started for them would be the Mystery Room, but there was no doubt that he wasn't there. Where it all started for her was all the way in Yorkshire and there was no way in any sense that the Prof would go there. Where it all started for him...well, Lucy couldn't know where the hell he had grown up at and she was sure nobody at the Yard would be able to tell her either, save for the Commissioner but it would still be unlikely that he'd go to such lengths. Stone? Why did he mention stone? She remembers the words Hilda had used, 'Try his flat. If he's not there, he's somewhere thinking of his last case. He used to go into sulks when he couldn't solve a certain one at first glance.' By matters of pure deduction, she was sure that where it all began had to be Forbodium Castle, not to mention that was technically their last case. He hadn't seen the new one yet.
She rushes out of the flat, hastily locking the door and finding herself the nearest cab to take her to the one place where it had all started for him. If she was reading the clue correctly, the cab would take her to his location and for her sake more than his, she hopes she has.
Forbodium Castle is just as menacing as she remembers it being, except there wasn't a worry in her body that she was going to be murdered in some capacity by some psycho. The sun was still bright above, which made it less worrisome in comparison to back then. If anything, her worry stemmed into the Prof. She quickly took a step inside and it wasn't long before she heard that she wasn't quite alone here.
"Get out of my head!"
It's muffled, but loud enough for Lucy to gather that yes, her beloved Prof was in here after all. Safe was a whole other question. Rushing up the stairs, she hones her ears in for anything to help her pinpoint the location, but she takes an educated guess, leaping into the room where she had found him, tied up against his will exactly one week ago. The call of his name slips away from the tip of her tongue when she sees him, almost expecting a struggle against himself with something sharp. It's kind of like that, she thinks, but it's not what she expects.
Instead, the Prof is on the floor, against the cold stone that he had mentioned in his text, clutching his head. His clothes are rumpled, hair even more disheveled and not in the neat ponytail that she's so used to, the tie nowhere to be seen. It takes her a moment to see that that there was dried blood on his lab coat sleeves and other parts of his jumper, staining the red deeper and making the blue look a tad bit purple. A pair of scissors with traces blood lay near his person and she practically rushes to him at the sight of it, pushing them slightly away and kneels next to him. He looks up, his eyes barely registering her existence, but his ears was fine enough to hear her coming. Her heart is thrumming so hard in her chest, it feels so hard to breathe at the sight of him looking so...destroyed. So mangled, no less most likely by his own doing. She curses under her own breath, assessing the damage.
"Bloody hell, Prof, what happened? Are you okay? Prof? Who did this to you?" She combs a hand through his hair, feeling a large gash on the side of his head and subsequently began to feel blood. She holds her hand to the wound, feeling one deep hole against her fingers and several slashes to the left side of his head. She pulls out a handkerchief she has in her pocket and cradles it against the wounds, ignoring the wince he makes at the pressure. Holding the other side of his head with her other hand and looking into his eyes, she fights the urge to tremble. He still looks positively dazed, as though he was on some sort of illegal substance. "Prof? Why are you bleeding in your head? What happened? By 'eck there's so much blood..."
"You're...Lucy?" He blinks, clarity not coming to him even after doing so. She is about to ask him again, repeating the question in hopes of getting an answer when something clicks in his head. "You got my message, oh."
"I did. What do you mean oh? I thought you needed me. By 'eck, you do need me. You said you were being murdered. What happened?" The questions come rapid fire and she can't control her trembling anymore. She should call nine-nine-nine now, call someone for help, anyone.
She sees the switch of personality up close for the first time, despite the longevity of their partnership/mentorship. It's strange, the way his eyes seemed to go from dazed to completely sharp, deadly like the scissors nearby. It's as if he wasn't out of it from the pain or the bleeding, much to her surprise. "I didn't call for you, Baker. I had everything under control until this fake started weeping and wrenched my phone from my grasp and texted you. Moron. Trust a fake who knows all the facts to fight the truth." He gestures to the phone that was across the room, most likely cracked all the way if not broken. Next to it is a blood splatter that worries her even more.
"Al? What did you do to yourself?" She asks, quieter than she hoped. He grins at the question.
The sod grins at her.
"Tried cutting the fake out. Slicing him out, I suppose is more appropriate, as you can see and feel, but the damn fool kept fighting me. Not to mention skin is so hard to break into, skulls even worse so. Couldn't get into the brain like I wanted." He lifts a hand and motions at the place where she had found the bleeding lazily. "Unfortunate how skulls are so hard to break, though I can see the satisfaction of breaking one in. It's probably like stepping on a soda pop can or crushing an ice cube in your mouth. I would have done it too if you hadn't shown up."
A part of her wants to slap Al so hard that he's the one that's reeling in shock and wishing he actually succeeded with his attempt to 'cut out' his other personality through blood loss. Another part of her wants to leave him to find medical supplies in order to staunch the bleeding much more successfully, which looked really bad based on the amount of blood on the shoulder of his lab coat. The final part of her, the biggest part, wants to sob into his lab coat and ask him why he'd try something so stupid, to risk his life like this for something so stupid. After all, she was still reeling at the fact that this truly was him, who he was before Forbodium ever took place. Fendi was the fake one in this, he was right on that regard. But it didn't matter, not right now. She needed to call someone for help.
"Right, well, I'm calling nine-nine-nine. You need medical attention, immediately." She slips a hand into her coat pocket to call emergency services when he reaches a hand for her wrist. It's not a tight grip, but tight enough to stop her. She looks up to him and his eyes are back to being soft.
"Please don't. I don't...I don't want to go to the hospital." His voice is meek, like a child's, and she knows she's talking to Fendi for a fact now. "I don't want to...go anywhere. This is where I began and where I'll end. He's right, Lucy. I deserve to be cut out, I'm not Alfendi Layton. But I don't want to die either. I don't...I don't know what I want." She wants to shake the man at that statement alone, but she knows her own anger and frustration from being worried about him won't help. She had to remain calm. With an exasperated sigh, she tucks a stray hair behind his ear that hadn't been nicked by the scissors.
"How poetic Prof, but what do you expect me to do while you've lacerated yourself a couple of times in the head, no less probably breached enough skin for bone to appear? Just let you bleed out? Let both of you die?" It's rougher than she'd like, so she takes a breath and tries again in a quieter voice, "You need help, Prof. Help that I can't give you by just standing here. I don't know how to, you know for a fact that I don't."
"You can. You solved it. You proved my innocence. You can help me. Us." Fendi's voice is practically pleading now. Her lips go to a thin line. It was true she had exonerated him, connected all the pieces for Justin to get convicted and for his name to be cleared. But she also was no therapist, no person that could properly help him. She had no medical experience and by hell she was not about to start right now. Talking was one thing, but actively figuring out how to help him was a whole other thing she couldn't do for him.
"I can't help you that far, Alfendi." She tries his actual name, to which he stares at her with a newfound surprise at the mere mention. There. He was listening properly now. "I exonerated you, but this is beyond anything I can do. I'm a detective constable, Alfendi. Not a therapist. I can only support you from afar."
"Then you're bloody well useless, Baker!" He pushes her off with newfound strength she didn't think someone bleeding to that level could have, scrambling for the scissors that she had only pushed aside. She rushes, tackling him so she is atop of him, restraining his legs and his arms but he already has the scissors in hand, pointing their sharp tip directly to her neck to the best of his ability. She swallows at the proximity.
"Alfendi. I don't want to do this. Please. Let's get you some help." Her voice drips of desperation, tears already threatening to fall. She knows this isn't the man she knows, regardless of who was the fake and the real one. The only people Al ever wanted to hurt were criminals, never her or himself. Fendi never would hurt a fly except in vocal sparring.
"I could kill you right now." His voice doesn't even waiver and Lucy knows he could and really would. She isn't even holding him in the most efficient position, a few well done movements and she would easily be at his mercy. But he doesn't seem to have realized it yet.
"And what would that accomplish? Waste my efforts on exonerating you just for you to commit another murder? You won't." She says boldly, mustering up some random courage she didn't think she had, "You can't."
"Why wouldn't I?" Al questions, racking his brain for any possible reason why he wouldn't. It appalls her that he'd even need to think of why he wouldn't, but she knows he's not the most stable at the moment. She shouldn't push him in an angry direction, she had to play it safe. "Do you think I care? It'd be so easy. All the blood coming out of your neck? I think it would be a beautiful sight to see."
"I'm the only one who stayed, aren't I? I'm the one who came after you when you were missing." She says with a shaky breath and he cocks his head slightly to the side in questioning, blood spilling onto the carpet of the room. "Hilda left you after realizing you weren't the man she loved anymore. Everyone in the Yard is terrified of you and what you can become in a split second. They told me to run off if there was no criminal in the room because of what you could do but I didn't care. I'm the only one who will never see you as a danger. Yes, you have Jekyll-and-Hyde moments that downright terrify me sometimes, but what can you do when you've been through a traumatic experience like what happened here, four years ago? You were shot, Alfendi. I don't care who's fake, who was there since the very beginning, or which personality I'm speaking to. I care that you're Alfendi Layton, the brightest mind at Scotland Yard--daresay the world. Detective Inspector Layton. My mentor. My friend."
He stares at her like he's staring at a case that has downright stumped him to its entirety, which is a sight she hasn't had the fortune of seeing often. Hell, they could practically be a crime scene with the way he was bleeding and the way that they were positioned. She could see it now, the Prof staring intently into the Reconstruction Machine, muttering about how he was some sort of decimal number close to knowing what had happened, knowing who had killed the victim. She let out a low sigh at the idea. She was downright mad for even trying to reason with someone so unstable. Well, if she was going to go out like this, let her be the crime scene; let him be the investigator. Let him be both the murderer of this phase of life and also the examiner through the lens. Let her lose, so long as he lived and continued.
His face contorts into several different fleeting emotions before settling to amusement. She raises an eyebrow at that. Could tonight not have any more surprises? Was her impassioned argument that amusing to him?
"I'm holding scissors to your carotid artery and you don't see me as a danger? You're deranged, Baker." He laughs, the beautiful sound. He drops the scissors and pushes them further away from reach. She lets out a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding. "Fine. Call nine-nine-nine before I change my mind. I'm getting one hell of a headache from the blood loss."
Emergency services comes in roughly eight minutes after she calls nine-nine-nine and takes them away in an ambulance, with Lucy texting Hilda that the Prof was alright, albeit harmed by his own hand and stupidity. She is reticent on the details, but she's sure she can explain later in person. She gets a response several minutes later.
Good to hear. Tell that fool
that he can't be disappearing
on us like that, not when he
has someone like you by
his side. I'll let everyone at the
Yard know that you're both okay.
Barton was livid when he found out
that you left without any backup.
She smiles at that, texting back:
I learned from the best, didn't I?
Hilda is quick to respond:
Barton was an idiot to put you with him,
to explicitly throw you in the line of danger.
But it's the best decision he could have done.
She slips her phone back into her pocket and looks to the Prof. He looks bored, staring up at the ambulance roof while they care for him. For a moment, she wonders what he's thinking, if the space that occupied both Al and Fendi was occupied with the chatter of what to do now and what their new partnership meant now that they couldn't just cut themselves off now. She doesn't realize she's staring until he looks to her, a small smile gracing his features, soft and warm like the first time she stepped foot into the Mystery Room. She takes his hand, grasping it tightly, to which he responds with equal pressure.
He was going to be okay, she thinks to herself. It would take awhile and 'normal' wasn't necessarily the most achievable anymore, but it was better than the alternative.
Lucy wakes up in a hospital chair, still wearing the bloodied clothes that she had when she walked into the hospital with the Prof. The smell of sterilized floors and the beeping of monitors wakes her up more though and she closes her eyes to think, craning her neck a bit to release the tension.
She recollects her thoughts, remembering exactly what happened after a few groggy moments of seated vertigo. The Prof was missing for a day and some, but it could have been more. The Prof had a nervous breakdown or something more, Lucy wasn't quite sure of the medical term. Tried to cut his 'fake' personality out. Scissors. Blood. Fight had ensued, but it had been small enough. Speech of truth. Ambulance. Here. She rubs her eyes with the balls of her fists and looks to her surroundings, finding the Prof patched up with a bunch of bandages wrapped around that side of his head where he slashed his way through. His eyes are closed and he's breathing at a pace that indicated at the very least a light sleep.
"By 'eck, Prof...you're downright mad...cutting yourself like that, what were you thinking to waste such genius?" She mutters under her breath, standing and grasping onto his hand. Her free hand touches his bandages, stroking gently as though the motion would fix it all and he'd be right as rain. "You'll get the help you need, I promise."
"Mm, is the help you're speaking of a therapist, Baker?" His eyes open and he looks to her, clasping her hand back warmly despite his negative tones. "I have a bright mind, one to rival the greats. I don't think it'd be wise to fill it with droll from a therapist. Numbs the brain."
"By 'eck, a mind control book birthed this, Prof. I'm pretty sure you aren't above a therapist if you aren't above something as shady as that." She responds before she could help herself and his eyes narrow at her words.
"You know my mental faculties were shot. I was susceptible." He grumbles to her, rolling his eyes. She can't help but snort at his stubbornness.
"Aye, and?" She asks, crossing her arms. "You still aren't above help. You know what happened today and why you're here." His lips turn to a fine line and he nods solemnly.
"Fair point." He sinks into the bed, Fendi's softness protruding out. "I'm paying for this heavily, aren't we?"
"Yes, yes you are. Probably would hurt more without the morphine. The way you cut yourself, you probably also need stitches." She looks down at her disheveled appearance and sighed. She needed a cold shower and a fresh change of clothes. Maybe a nap too, the more she thought about it--one in an actual bed, no less. Then she could come back and stay as long as the Prof needed her to be. The words are on her tongue but he speaks ahead of her, grasping onto her hand tighter.
"Stay longer?" He asks, a small sheepish smile on his features. The thoughts of leaving escape her mind and she returns the same smile, bringing the chair close to him.
"Aye."