Chapter Text
WHUMPTOBER DAY 1
Alternative Prompt 6 (head injury)
When Morse blinked open his eyes and felt his head aching, his first thought was, I’m damned.
His second thought was not a clever one: he sat up.
Morse moaned, which was not a wise idea, either. The sound resonated through his skull and rendered him breathless.
The world melted away, and for a dangerous moment Morse was sure that he was about to tilt over and fall back into unconsciousness. He tried to control his breathing, to blink until the gray faded into color.
“Morse?”
Morse raised a hand to his forehead, which was pounding with uncomfortable familiarity. His eyes scanned the area, but nothing looked familiar. Alarm made him pale.
I’m damned, he thought again.
He tried to think back. Had he forgotten to take his medication last night? Was that the reason for this?
Or was it something worse?
“Morse, Christ – you alright, matey?”
Morse shut his eyes, breathing hard through his nose as nausea rose in his throat. What if the medication had stopped working? What if these attacks were permanent, after all?
A hand rested on his shoulder. “Morse.”
Morse’s eyes snapped open.
Strange knelt before him, his eyes searching Morse’s for something. “You with me?” he asked. “What happened?”
Morse didn’t answer right away. A bitter taste entered his mouth, and then he spat the words out like they were blood.
“I can’t remember.” He heard his own voice rise, and panic gripped him. “I can’t remember…”
Strange nodded. “All right, all right – it’s okay,” he said.
But Morse couldn’t hear him. His lungs had begun to refuse air. He gagged on a stale breath. His chest, head, and heart pounded as one.
I can’t remember – I can’t remember –
Someone was whispering the words, over and over.
Something’s wrong –
There was a shout – Jim’s?
My head –
I’m running out of time –
I can’t remember –
Morse shut his eyes desperately.
“You don’t want your own name to evaporate in the dew, do you?” a voice whispered.
Morse flinched as his shoulder was squeezed and an urgent voice sounded in his ear.
“Morse, breathe!”
Morse’s eyes flew open to find that he’d scrambled backwards until his back was against the wall. Strange looked frightened.
“Morse, matey, you’ve got to take a breath,” Strange said in a shaky voice. “Come on, now.”
Morse furrowed his brow, confused by the instructions. Then he took a shuddering breath. His lungs rejoiced.
Strange’s eyes lit up. “There we go – that’s it,” he said. “Let’s get another.”
Morse’s chest felt heavy, but he did as he was told.
Strange bowed his head in relief. “There we are,” he sighed. “Keep breathing, Morse.”
Morse took another gulp of air, but it hurt less this time. He took another breath. His heart began to slow; he could tell because the throbbing in his head was slowing, too.
After another couple of breaths, Strange gave Morse’s shoulder another squeeze. “I’m going to go for help, alright?” he asked. “You going to be okay?”
I don’t know. Morse nodded.
Strange gave him a quick once-over, then got to his feet and left.
The house had been Morse’s suggestion, Strange thought as he rushed down the stairs. And it looks like he’d been right about it.
Albert Harland, whose name appeared in a clump of lavender in James Blue’s mark garden, had shot himself months ago. And now, it seemed, they had found the person who had put the hit on him: Henrietta Pearce. Harland’s sister.
It was Pearce’s summer home, but Morse insisted it was where she had gone.
Strange reached the bottom floor and searched the rooms for the others. Finally, in the kitchen, he found Jakes.
“Morse got hit,” he said by way of greeting.
Jakes didn’t answer right away. “Who hit him?”
“Dunno – he can’t remember,” Strange said. He suppressed a shiver as he remembered the terror in his friend’s eyes. “He’s in a bad way. Help me get him outside?”
“Yeah.”
Strange led Jakes back up the stairs. They strode down the hallway, then rounded the corner. They froze at the sight before them.
“Jesus,” Jakes muttered.
“Matey, you sure you should be doing that?” Strange called, breaking out of his shock and marching forward.
Morse had gotten to his feet and was leaning against the wall with his eyes shut. His knees were bent slightly, like all it would take to blow him over was a gentle breeze.
Strange approached him and held out a hand. “You with us, Morse?”
Morse opened his eyes but didn’t reply.
“Strange.”
Strange turned around to see Jakes kneeling on the ground. He’d picked something up. Strange hadn’t even noticed it there; he’d been so preoccupied by Morse.
“What is it?” he asked.
Jakes turned it over in his hand. “A clock,” he reported. The clock’s face had been smashed in.
Strange stiffened. “Is that blood?” he said. Sure enough, where the face had been cracked, there was a smear of crimson on the glass. He whipped around to face Morse. “Are you bleeding?” he demanded.
Morse furrowed his brow in confusion.
Strange didn’t wait. He stepped forward and turned Morse around so he could look into his curls. It took Strange no time at all to find the spot where Morse had been struck by the clock. “Matey, this needs stitches,” he muttered.
Morse’s voice was faint. “What does?”
Strange turned him around again and looked at him closely. Morse’s eyes were unfocused, and his pupils were wide. “You’re concussed, Morse,” Strange sighed. “We’ve got to get you to hospital.”
“Concussed?” Morse echoed. “But –“ He broke off, eyes darting downwards. He raised a hand to his temple, then steered it back behind his head.
“I wouldn’t do that –“
Morse hissed with pain as he touched the head wound. He pulled his hand away, then stared at it in wonder. His fingers had come away bloody.
Morse murmured something to himself.
“What’s that?” Strange asked.
Morse lowered his hand. A spread of emotions crossed his face. Then he turned to Strange. “I’m concussed,” he said in an awestruck voice.
“Yeah – yeah, you are, matey,” Strange said. He wrapped Morse’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you seen by a doctor.”
“I’m fine.”
“Er – no, you are not.” Strange gave Morse a sideways glance.
Jakes got to his feet, still carrying the clock, and led the way. Strange shepherded Morse down the hall after him. Morse kept up remarkably well – at first.
He tripped more and more often after they rounded the corner and approached the stairs.
“You still with me, Morse?” Strange asked, not risking a glance over. “Can’t do this by myself.”
Morse hummed.
Strange was grateful that the Pearces had such a wide staircase. “Jakes,” he said. Jakes turned, and Strange jerked his head to Morse’s other side. Silently, Jakes came back up the stairs and threw Morse’s other arm over his shoulders. Together they guided Morse down the stairs.
When they were about halfway down the staircase, Thursday walked in the front door. He stiffened at the sight before him. Strange and Jakes brought Morse to the bottom floor, where Morse wrenched his arms out of their grips.
“I’m fine,” he said, turning to Strange.
“What the hell happened to you?” Thursday demanded, pointing to Morse’s bleeding head.
“I’m concussed,” Morse replied, turning back to Thursday. He locked his fingers behind his back.
“Fine and concussed, eh?” Thursday’s eyes looked between Strange and Jakes.
“Found this near him,” Jakes said, handing over the clock. Thursday examined it.
“Only been a couple minutes,” he said. “Whoever did it might still be here.”
Morse blinked and furrowed his brow. Strange eyed him carefully.
“Jakes, you’re with me,” Thursday said, but his eyes were on Strange. “You get him to hospital.”
“Sir.”
Thursday and Jakes left, heading back up the stairs. Strange didn’t miss the tension in Thursday’s face as he passed.
Strange turned to Morse, whose expression was still as confused. “Come on, Morse,” he said, placing a hand on his arm. Morse flinched, and for a moment Strange thought he was about to go down. But then Morse nodded and allowed himself to be led out of the house, through the garden, and into the car.
The ride was longer than Strange liked. Every once and a while, he asked Morse a question to keep him awake. At one point, Strange began asking questions that he didn’t know the answer to, just to see if Morse might. It became almost fun.
Then, after he asked Morse a complex math problem, Morse didn’t reply.
Anxiety wormed into Strange’s chest. “Morse?” he said. “Morse.”
Morse hummed.
“Now come on, I’m not that boring, am I?” Strange asked chidingly. “Come on now, what’s the answer?”
Morse didn’t even hum.
Strange reached a hand over and shook Morse’s shoulder. “Hey there, don’t go to sleep,” he ordered.
Morse roused at once, sucking in a breath. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Matey, that’s the last time I want to hear that from you,” Strange said in a huff. “You are concussed.”
“I know,” Morse said, as if that meant anything. Then he said, “Jim, that’s what I mean.”
“What?” Strange asked, actually taking his eyes from the wheel to glance over. Morse looked alert as he spoke, so it wasn’t delirium – at least, Strange prayed it wasn’t. “What do you mean?”
“I’m concussed,” Morse said. “I can’t remember, but that’s because I’m concussed. I’m fine.”
Strange blinked twice, then returned his eyes to the road. “That doesn’t make you fine, Morse,” he said.
Still, Strange couldn’t brush it off as the rambling of a concussed man. Even knocked about, it was still Morse, which means he’d said something important. Strange tried to solve the strange riddle he’d just been handed.
I’m concussed.
I can’t remember, but that’s because I’m concussed.
I’m fine.
Why the stress on the second concussed? There was no other reason that he’d have forgotten –
Oh.
Strange lifted his head. Something flared in his heart – a mad mix of anger and sympathy.
Morse had thought he was having one of his lunar dew migraines again.
I’m fine. He wasn’t saying that he was alright despite the concussion; he was relieved that it was only a concussion, and not related to lunar dew.
They pulled into the hospital lot, and Strange put the car in park. He turned to Morse with a smile. “Yeah, you know what, matey?” he said. He reached over and rocked Morse’s shoulder. “You are fine.”